


vertical / horizontal

by untilourapathy (gwendolen_lotte)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Female Draco Malfoy, Female Harry Potter, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 12:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13411113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolen_lotte/pseuds/untilourapathy
Summary: the stripes on her shirt, a metaphor





	vertical / horizontal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thebluepeninsula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebluepeninsula/gifts).



> This is based off [this amazing art!](http://thebluepeninsula.tumblr.com/post/169824553741/femdrarry-i-love-them-ref) I love it to pieces xx

Harry is a runner. From place to place to place she runs, always  
seeking something. That, she never finds.  
She doesn’t find her something down Camden market where she spies a bracelet  
gold leaf that’s cheap copper painted on,  
(she feels that way sometimes)  
buys a gold ring to keep. Her hair, shorn curls now, browner than  
the roasted chestnuts she picks up at Hyde, watching the birds fly.  
She hopes it’s to somewhere warm. 

She runs into summer, glasses still searching. Her scar  
not the one in pain, but her heart,  
empty where it seeks that something.  
But she does find a someone. A vertical girl with hair that drips down her body  
like the sweat that pools down her back. Nails olive, like Harry’s shirt.  
She thinks it’s fate.

//

Draco’s shirt (green and white stripes) goes up  
and down, up and down –  
a portrait of her life, a messy one at that.  
All of the ups and all of the downs, written on her shirt skin  
blood,  
vertical lines surrounding her, green and white and white and green  
vertical lines hemming her in, a prison –  
just one of her own making. 

She gets better. She starts to climb – up and up and  
up into the sky, disappearing  
into her dreams like the cat who curls by the bins to scavenge, two doors down.  
She meets the girl again when she takes the bins out,  
not making eye contact when she reaches down to pat the cat.  
The empty spaces on her shirt, left for the dead – hollow and bitter and raw egg white –  
suddenly look more apparent.

But they’re flush now, spaces melding,  
a kiss


End file.
